A Better Place, A Better Time
by streetlight manifesto
Summary: He'd waited for this day his whole life, but was he ready to face it?
1. Author's Note

Author's Note: 

This is my first attempt at writing fan fiction. Please keep that in mind while reading it because while constructive criticism and reviews are highly encouraged, I'd rather not get a million people telling me that it sucks.

This story takes place just after Wake Up Call, but before The Fifth Page. Thus, Burkhoff has not yet begun studying the effects of promicin on himself.


	2. Bend and Not Break

It was cold that night. Damp from the afternoon rain that had plagued the Seattle area that afternoon, but mostly cold. It wasn't quite cold enough for the homeless to abandon their stoops and cardboard boxes and alleys, but most were smart enough to insulate their coats (or lack thereof) with a few layers of discarded newspaper. The young man shivered and shoved his hands deeper into the pockets of his worn out thrift shop coat. His breath hung in front of his face like a wispy cloud. He coughed, finding the silence that seemed to blanket the street on which he walked to be nearly deafening. Silence was something he'd never enjoyed. Silence meant there was something wrong, meant there was someone waiting in the shadows to mug you, meant that his mother was in another one of her moods. The thought of his mother made his eyebrows furrow in the center of his pale-complexioned forehead. He shook his head, as if to rid himself of such thoughts, and continued walking.

The fact that he was only a block away from his intended destination made him want to turn around and walk as far as he possibly could in the opposite direction. But even if he really wanted to turn back, he didn't think his feet would let him. Looking down at his shoes-a ratty pair of black Chuck Taylor's-he figured his feet must have had their own plan as far as the evening went. Perhaps they felt a night, or even part of a night, spent indoors was better than finding a doorstep to sleep under. Or maybe they were just tired of walking around in the same section of town for hours on end. Whatever the reason, the young man soon found himself at the front door of fairly nice looking apartment building.

The doorman cast him a wary gaze and cleared his throat. "Can I help you?" The man, a burly fellow who looked a bit odd dressed up in his spiffy red uniform, was tired of working the 7-midnight night shift, which just began only a half hour ago. He would've much rather been home with his wife and two children, even if those children were slowly morphing from loveable preteens into moody and argumentative teenagers.

"I'm...I'm here to see Kevin Burkhoff," he said quietly. "Apartment..." He looked up, trying to picture the number written beside the building's address on the little scrap of paper. "...101."

The doorman still had a suspicious look plastered across his mustached face, but let the boy in without any more questioning. There had been a lot of people coming around to see Dr. Burkhoff lately; mostly reporters who came out within five minutes, not hiding the looks of disappointment on their faces. He couldn't figure out why anyone would want to visit that guy. In the opinion of Mr. Harold Andrews, doorman extraordinaire of nearly fifteen years, Kevin Burkhoff was a weirdo. Andrews, as most tenants took to calling him, did not trust the man, despite the fact that he had been a world-renowned neuroscientist before, to put it frankly, going crazy. After all, he was involved with those 4400 people; a group Andrews wanted nothing to do with. He much rather preferred living his quiet, unexciting life, complete with bickering teenagers and cookie-baking housewife.

"Dr. Burkhoff doesn't like visitors," Andrews said to the boy, who reminded him a bit of his own son. His raven hair was a bit longer than Harold Junior's, but had the same shaggy quality that his wife often complained about. The boy's eyes, like his son's, were hazel. And yet there was something strangely different about them. This kid had the eyes of a man, a man who'd seen more than his fair share of "bad shit," as Andrews liked to so bluntly put it. They were not the eyes of a seventeen-year-old whose biggest worry was getting into the right college and finding a date for his senior prom. The young man's gaze, though somewhat shy and slightly hesitant, found his way to Andrews' eyes.

"I just need to tell him a few things...ask him a few questions." His voice, like his eyes, did not match the age he appeared to be. Or at least, the age Harold Andrews thought he appeared to be. For all Andrews knew, this guy could be one of those damned 4400 people and was actually born twenty years before him.

Andrews shrugged and pulled the door open. "Okay kid, but don't say I didn't warn ya."

The young man nodded, stepped inside, and ran a hand anxiously through his hair. There was no turning back now. His Converse-clad feet were going to keep walking until he reached the door. Which, he noted with a bit of frustration, was easier said than done. He finally found a sign pointing in the direction of an elevator on his right that stated '100-150 - 1st floor'. Only a few seconds after pressing the up button, the silver doors slid open and he stepped inside. He was grateful for the lack of music in this particular elevator. With all the jumbled thoughts running around in his head, the last thing he wanted was a constant stream of bad music pouring through the speakers like cheap wine.

He caught sight of his own reflection in the mirrored paneling that lined the elevator walls and found himself wishing that he'd been able to clean up a little more. His hair was disheveled, as usual, and was spilling over his brow line, nearly into his eyes. The black t-shirt that was almost completely concealed under his olive drab coat was thin and beginning to fray, and his blue jeans were rumpled and torn in a few places near his shoes. When the elevator stopped, he frowned at his almost derelict reflection and stepped off.

Apartment 101 was the first one to his left. As he stood in front of the door, he could feel his heart beating like timpani drums against his ribcage. The hand that reached out to knock on the wooden door was practically shaking. He knocked twice, the second time louder than the first. Though not particularly religious, he prayed for no one to be home. All the things he'd planned on saying, the things he'd rehearsed in his mind over and over again, were suddenly gone. And as the door, still locked with a chain across the top, opened with a jerk and the man he had waited to see for as long as he could remember peered out at him with an eyebrow raised in a very questioning manner, he felt sick to his stomach.

"Who are you?"

"I...you...I, um...you knew...youknewmymother," he blurted out. "A long t-time ago...you knew my mother. She..." He stopped and took a deep breath, letting it out in the form of a heavy sigh. "My n-name is Kieran Galloway. My mother's name was M-Maggie. Maggie Galloway. She said...she told me...she told me that you're my father." 


	3. Ways & Means

The latched door suddenly closed and for a fleeting moment, Kieran thought that he was being ignored and passed off as some kind of vagrant looking for some money and possibly a place to sleep. In truth, neither of those things, though he was without both at the time, were on his mind when he made the decision to seek out his father. He knew it would seem strange, just showing up after seventeen years, but it was a risk he was willing to take. After all, it wasn't his fault it'd taken so long for the two to meet. Years and years of pestering his mother and begging her to tell him something, anything about his father hadn't paid off until only weeks earlier. Only days before she died, Maggie Galloway finally gave her son his father's name. 

Because his mother nearly refused to speak the man's name, let alone tell Kieran what he was like, he began his search at the local library looking through old newspapers. He was astonished to find that Kevin Burkhoff was a well-known neuroscientist and professor. His impression of his father had always been one of a deadbeat, drug addicted man who couldn't handle the idea of having a family. It was rather morbid, but realistic. He'd long since given up thinking that his dad was an undercover CIA agent who left to protect Kieran and his mother. No, those were the dreams of a five-year-old boy and nothing more. But to find that his father had a job, and an important one at that, filled Kieran with a kind of hope and happiness that he hadn't felt in years. This hope, however, was dashed upon reading an article about Kevin Burkhoff's mental breakdown and subsequent placement into the Abenson Psychiatric Hospital. His father hadn't spoken in nearly six years, and it didn't look like he was going to start anytime soon.

Days later, after his mother's death and before being evicted from the one-bedroom apartment he once shared with her, Kieran happened to come across a very interesting story on the six o'clock news. The anchor told a story of Kevin Burkhoff's miraculous "awakening" at the hands of a strange tower commissioned by Tess Doerner, another patient at the hospital and one of the 4400. His jaw about hit the floor when the anchor finished his segment by stating that the experts at Abenson were "planning Dr. Burkhoff's immediate release from the facility." Later that evening, Kieran made the final decision to seek out his father at all costs.

Standing in front of a door that he assumed had just been slammed in his face, Kieran wondered if his decision was the right one. Burkhoff obviously thought he was either a reporter looking for a story, or a lunatic with nothing better to do. Just as he was about to turn and make his way back downstairs, the latch rattled, followed by the door opening widely. Burkhoff glanced at the young man standing in his doorway from head to toe, raised an eyebrow, and gestured for him to come inside.

"No use having this conversation in the hallway," he said stiffly. Kieran, still shocked by the fact that the door actually opened again, stepped inside without looking up. He could tell Burkhoff was uncomfortable and honestly, he didn't blame him. It wasn't every day someone knocked on one's door claiming to be a long-lost son. The professor paced around the cluttered living room of his apartment; shuffling papers here, stacking files there. Kieran noticed that many of the cardboard boxes that filled the room were untouched or only half unpacked.

"Must be hard...settling in and everything..." he scratched nervously at the back of his neck and focused his gaze on the floor. For a moment, Burkhoff thought of responding to this statement with another quip of anxious small talk, but then thought better of it.

"Listen, if there's something you want-"

"I don't want your money," Kieran interrupted. "That's not why I came here. I just...wanted to meet you." He shrugged hopefully, looking up at the sweatshirt-clad man before him. Burkhoff's choice of clothing, which, although cleaner than what he was wearing, was not much fancier than his jeans and t-shirt, didn't strike him as something a neuroscientist would wear. Then again, Kieran was not acquainted with many scientists at all.

"Why?" His voice had the same startled tone as someone asking why anyone would want to jump off a cliff.

"Oh, I don't know. Because you're, y'know, my father?" He didn't mean for it to sound the way it did, but it was merely a habit.

Oh, I don't know Kevin. Because it's, y'know, Christmas? This kid was definitely Maggie's son, of this fact he was certain. He had her eyes; those piercing hazel eyes that made you feel as if they were looking right through you, right through any bullshit front you may have been putting up. The eyes were evident, but the sarcasm was a dead give away. Burkhoff could hear Maggie saying something right along those lines seventeen years ago.

"About that..." He paused, searching for the right words. "Are you sure? You're Maggie's son, there's no denying that...but are you mine?"

"You knew my mother, you think she would've lied about something like that?" Kieran was getting over his fear of being thrown out and was slowly (perhaps not so slowly) coming out of his shell. He was no longer afraid to look his father in the eye and say exactly what he was thinking.

The older man sighed and shook his head. "No...if she was going to make someone up, it sure as hell wouldn't be me. She hated me too much." Kieran nodded in agreement, relieved that Burkhoff hadn't demanded proof of some sort, as solid proof was one thing he lacked.

"So I'm assuming you didn't know about me?"

"Never assume anything," he mumbled, taking a seat on the worn couch against the wall. "Your mother told me she was pregnant, but also told me that the baby wasn't mine. She left the next day...told me she never wanted to see me again. I offered to help her, but she refused and was on her way."

Kieran could only nod. This explained why Burkhoff was so quick to accept what he'd told him and what he described sounded exactly like something his mother would do. She was probably terrified of what she thought Burkhoff would say if he knew the baby was his. "She could never..." He furrowed his eyebrows, unsure of how to put what he wanted to say. "She always got these ideas in her head of how things would turn out...usually bad ideas. She couldn't...she was stubborn. Once she got one of her ideas, there was no changing her mind." As an after thought, he added, "But, if you don't mind me asking...didn't you have some idea that maybe my mom was lying, that the baby was yours?"

Burkhoff smiled sadly. "You're a smart kid." There was a brief moment of silence before he began talking once more. "I was almost positive she was lying. But I...I was focused on my work, my research. Maggie knew I wasn't looking to settle down and have a family." Kieran, though having only known this man for twenty minutes, was pretty sure this fact still held true. Dr. Burkhoff just didn't strike him as the family man kind of guy. "We both went into our relationship--if you could call it that--knowing that it wouldn't last very long."

Kieran fiddled with a loose string on the sleeve of his coat, not sure of what to say. He spoke up, suddenly feeling the strange urge to leave. "I should go," he said quietly. "I have to walk home and-" A loud crack of thunder interrupted his sentence. "-I think it might rain."


	4. Running to Stand Still

**A/N: **Thanks to everyone who read and reviewed the previous chapters.

Kieran turned to leave, almost positive that his newly found father wouldn't do anything to stop him. After all, why should he? Seventeen years had passed without either of them knowing each other's names. What did Kieran expect? A warm welcome? A home, complete with a comfortable bed to sleep in and a pet dog? He was then filled with a surge of regret. Finding Kevin Burkhoff was a stupidly pointless idea. _I never should've come-_

"Wait." Kieran's thought was interrupted, but this time by his father's voice rather than a crack of thunder. "Wait...you don't have to go." Kevin realized suddenly that perhaps the boy simply wanted to go. Perhaps finally finding his father was...disappointing? "If you...if you want to go, I'll drive you," he added quickly. His tone sounded frustrated, though he hadn't meant to seem annoyed in the least. Kieran raised an eyebrow as he slowly turned back to his father.

"It's fine," he said shortly. He was under the impression that Burkhoff didn't want anything to do with him. "I'll walk." He turned to leave once again and was stopped a second time. This time, he felt the pressure of a hand grasping his right arm through his thin coat. Kieran looked up at his father, finding that he lacked the courage to look into his eyes and find the disappointment he was sure the man was feeling. He didn't want a son anymore than he'd wanted to marry his mother and settle down.

"Listen. I'm trying, okay?" Kevin paused, but did not let go of his son's arm. "I'm not exactly...good at th-"

Kieran shook his head and removed his father's hand from his arm. "You don't have to be. I get it, all right? I get that you don't want me here. I get that you didn't want my mother around. I met you and now we can both move on with our lives like this never happened." He took a few steps towards the door, but was not able to make it past the wooden frame.

"Would you _wait_? Christ...you _are_ your mother's son." Burkhoff sighed and shook his head. He ran a nervous hand through his graying hair and examined the young man who stood angrily before him. As much as he looked like Maggie, Kevin couldn't help but notice that looking at Kieran was like looking at a slightly altered version of himself at age seventeen.

"I'm listening."

"Before you walked in here I didn't have anyone to...I was alone. Not just literally speaking, but..." He sighed and tried to think of a better way to explain what he was trying to say. "When I was released from the hospital, there was no one waiting to take me home. I'm not exactly a people person. My social skills are less than adequate and I don't imagine I'd make a very good father." Kieran listened intently, not able to figure out where this conversation was going. "But I want to...that is, I'd like to...get to know you?" His last few words were formed like a question, as though he was expecting a negative answer.

"R-really?" Kieran was quite surprised by this turn of events. "I...okay. Okay." A small smile formed across his face. Burkhoff smiled as well, surprisingly relieved after saying what he felt needed to be said.

"If you want to go, I can drive you. I'm sure Maggie will want you home. And I don't need to give her another reason to hate me," he said, the same smile still playing on his lips. Kieran's smile faded into a frown at the mention of his mother. He forgot that his father knew nothing of her death.

"My mother...died. It's been almost a month. She was sick for a while..." Talking about his mother still brought a fresh, dull ache to the pit of his stomach. He didn't really get time to grieve, what with the landlord kicking him out and the dealers looking to settle Maggie's debt. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you earlier. I just..." He shrugged in a defeated manner, not knowing what else to say.


End file.
